


Cry

by ShakesDarkLady



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, Loss, emotional smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 19:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakesDarkLady/pseuds/ShakesDarkLady
Summary: Following her return from Hong Kong, Patsy is doing well most days. But some days all the loss catches up to her.





	Cry

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my dear friend, who is going through a difficult time. Just a reminder that loved ones will get you through everything life may throw at you.

_“If I don’t hold the waters back, the dam is gonna crack and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna drown”_

 

Losing a parent is perhaps one of the hardest things a person may endure. The pain feels never-ending. Patsy had experienced this not once, but twice, though truthfully, it feels as though it happened three times. When her mother had passed in the internment camp, she was not allowed to grieve. She had to be strong for her younger sister. After the war, she had closed her heart to everyone, her father included. And he had let her. Though they had both physically survived unspeakable cruelties, the emotional damage had been so extensive that they had been unable to coexist in each other’s worlds. Her father returned to China, drowning himself in work, and Patsy was shipped off to boarding school, where she withdrew further into herself. They were lost to each other. Over the years, they exchanged impersonal Christmas and birthday cards. When Patsy graduated and had been accepted into Nurses Training at The London, she received a letter in his secretary’s hand writing informing her that an account had been set up for her, into which regular deposits had been and would continue to be made. Patsy never touched the money.

Before Delia, Patsy can honestly admit to herself that she would not have gone to Hong Kong to be with her father as his health deteriorated. The regret would have eaten away at her for years to come but she would not have gone, could not have made herself that vulnerable. But Delia Busby had come into her life all cheeky smiles, gentle touches, soft Welsh lilts, and wrecking balls that tore down Patsy’s so carefully constructed walls. She encouraged Patsy to acknowledge, grieve for, and grow from her painful past. And it was in that new-found vulnerability that Patsy found herself to be stronger. So, it was with Delia’s love and support, Patsy found herself on a boat bound for her ailing father.

It certainly was not easy. She didn’t rush from the ship to her father’s arms, declaring regret for the years apart. No. Instead, it had been two strangers meeting. They knew nothing of each other’s lives. Patsy slipped into the role she knew so well… Nurse Mount. It allowed them to slowly become accustomed to the other’s presence. It was as his eye sight began to fail that their nurse/patient relationship slowly dissolved into that of a parent and child. Patsy read to him, first from newspapers, then some of his favorite novels, and eventually she began to share with him the letters she received from Poplar, though edited versions. Try as she may though, she was unable to disguise the adoration that seeped into her voice or the calmness that swept through her body when she spoke of Delia. Her father began to speak of her mother, recounting stories of their early courtship, their wedding, their joy at the births of both Patsy and her sister, Grace. When he spoke of how he proposed to her mother, Patsy’s heart ached. His love for his wife so reminded her of her love for Delia. He had surprised Patsy by taking her hand in his own, slipping a small item into her palm before squeezing gently. “Always show her you love her. Words are not enough,” he had told her. Her voice thick with emotion, she asked of whom he was speaking. “Your Delia,” he had whispered. Patsy had been unable to fight back her tears. She cried into her father’s chest as he held her for the first time since her childhood, since before the war.

After that evening, they talked freely… of Delia, of their lives, of their shared pain. Her father’s health began to decline quite rapidly. Patsy’s once regular letters to London became more infrequent. When she was able to find time to write, she could not find the words to convey all she was feeling. Pages upon pages littered the desk in her bedroom. Each one only containing a line or two, seemingly so inadequate to actually send. She had tried to call Nonnatus once but hung up before anyone answered. What if Delia wasn’t in? What would Patsy even say?

In October, Patsy lost her father for the second time. This time, however, there were no regrets, no unspoken words. He had drifted away in his sleep, his hand cradled in Patsy’s.

Since returning to Poplar, Patsy has found herself more open with her friends, more tactile and expressive with Delia. Overall, her heart is lighter. And most days, she is good.

But there are some days when the loss catches up to her. Some days it hits her the moment she wakes in the morning, taking a Herculean effort to get out of bed. Other days it sneaks up on her. She may be cycling to a laboring mother, changing wound dressings on a district patient, or testing urine samples at the clinic. Today she had been unloading her used instruments into the autoclave for sterilization when a wave of emotion swept over her. She brought her hand to her mouth to muffle the strangled sound that jumped from her throat. She hastily turned the autoclave on before rushing from the clinical room, up the stairs, and into the privacy of her empty room.

Initially, Patsy sits on the edge of the bed, her hands grasping the comforter. She wills the tears not to break fall. Her body is rigid with the exertion. Crying has always terrified Patsy. In the prisoner of war camp, it was literally beaten into her that crying was a sign of weakness. She had lived in fear that once the tears start, they may never stop. Since then, she can count on one hand the number of times her emotions got the better of her and the tears overcame her. Each time, it felt endless, as if she were drowning.

Right now, she feels the waves threatening to overtake her. She lays down, burying her face into the pillow, clutching it tightly. She tries to focus on her breathing but instead of maintaining even breaths, they become sharper, more gasping. The sound is so thunderous in her ears that she does not hear the opening and closing of the bedroom door or the muffled footfall approaching the bed. She does feel the bed slightly dip and a warm, familiar body pressed against her back, a comforting arm snaking over her hip and across her stomach, drawing her impossibly closer.

Patsy’s walls crack, the tears tumbling forth and shudders wracking her body. The person behind her remains silent. Words are entirely unnecessary in this moment.

Time passes, though the length is unknown. Patsy’s breathing slowly steadies. The pillow damp against her cheek, eyes shut against the tired sting.

“Pats?” The voice is soft, almost timid, as if afraid to wake the midwife if she has fallen into slumber.

“Yes?” Patsy’s voice is small and hoarse.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Fingers sweep strands of damp ginger hair away from Patsy’s forehead.

Patsy sighs. “He’s… he’s gone, truly gone. It just catches up with me sometimes, you know?” Hearing a breathy ‘yes’ in response, Patsy continues, “They’re all gone.” Her voice trembles with a new wave of unshed tears. She chooses instead to focus on the fingers tracing comforting patterns across her abdomen.

Rolling over, Patsy takes the other woman’s face into her hands. “You’re absolutely not allowed to leave; do you hear me?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Pats,” Delia replies, placing a hand over one of Patsy’s, against her cheek.

“Promise me, Delia,” Patsy implores as she rests her forehead against the Welshwoman’s.

Delia closes the small space between them, ghosting her lips across the redhead’s. “I promise,” she breathes.

Patsy pulls her closer, capturing Delia’s lips into a desperate kiss. Her hands tangle in dark brown hair. When the need for air becomes too much, they pull back taking gasping breaths, foreheads resting together.

“Do you want to talk-”

“No,” Patsy abruptly cuts Delia off. Feeling the brunette tense at her brusqueness, she adds, “Later. Honestly. Just… not right now, please.”

Delia nods just as she feels herself being tugged on top of the redhead. Patsy gazes up into endless blue eyes, silently conveying her needs to the younger woman.

Her hands braced on either side of Patsy’s head, Delia leans down to kiss her again. The midwife welcomes the kiss, the acknowledgement of Delia’s understanding. She deepens it as her fingers trail down the Welshwoman’s sides and back up.

Delia captures the wandering hands. She places delicate kisses to each wrist before pinning them to the bed by Patsy’s head. At the redhead’s questioning expression, Delia smiles. “Relax, sweetheart. Keep them here.”

Feeling the tension ease in the other woman’s body, Delia begins releasing each button of the midwife’s uniform. Her lips follow the trail, brushing across newly exposed skin. She unbuckles the belt before sitting back. “Lift up,” she encourages, assisting Patsy in slipping the dress down and off. Now kneeling between Patsy’s legs, she traces along the inside of her thighs, inching ever higher, hiking the cream-colored silk slip upwards.

Patsy’s blue eyes are locked on Delia’s as her chest rises and falls more rapidly. She wants to move her hands, to end the Welshwoman’s teasing. It takes all her will to resist. This isn’t about hurried movements and quick releases. It’s about letting go, about pulling her out of her memories and back to the moment.

The silk material is now bunched up at her waist and she feels Delia crook her fingers into the sides of her knickers, drawing them down and tossing them aside. Patsy watches through hooded eyes as Delia leans down, ghosting her lips along the path her fingers had just taken. When the Welshwoman runs her tongue along her core, Patsy’s back arches, her fingers grasping the pillow. She feels the younger woman wrap an arm around her leg, bracing a hand against her abdomen to hold her in place.

Delia’s mouth dances so expertly across her with no discernable rhythm. The build is drawn out. Two fingers ease into her and set a steady pace. The coil tightens low in her body. With the crook of the fingers and a final swipe across her clit, Patsy comes undone. For a few blissful moments, it is only her and Delia. The ache is lessened. The tears have stopped. She will not drown. Patsy holds tightly to the knowledge that through all the loss, she is never alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The quote at the beginning is from the song "Cry" performed by Reba McEntire, written by Brandy Clark and Shane Mcanally. It's a beautiful song.


End file.
